


Breathe In

by blackkat



Series: criminals do it better [4]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Sad Backstories, light humor, mentioned child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is sheer madness. Sasori is impatient and aloof and cold, with a tendency to get lost in his woodworking and a history of criminal activity that would make any sane person faint. There is nothing in that equation that suggests assigning him three traumatized, likely still-grieving children will be anything short of a complete disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe In

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, whoops my hand slipped and Sasori somehow wouldn’t stop talking? I totally intended this to be, like, 2k words, my bad. But I really like unusual friendships, and I suppose this counts. Also, you will see references to my headcanon that Sasori is asexual, so if that disagrees with you, meh. I find it hard to care. 
> 
> (Title from the Frou Frou song of the same name.)

They’ve been back in Konoha for three and a half weeks when Sasori receives the call.

When it’s finished, he stands in his tiny, if serviceable, kitchen for a few long, lingering seconds, staring down at the darkened screen of his phone. There are no thoughts in his head beyond the vaguest snatch of distant understanding, and Sasori doubts he could pick anything coherent out of the snarled knots of emotion weighing down his chest.

His sister is dead. He hardly knew her, didn’t even know she was dying, but she is four years in the ground and yesterday her husband was arrested for child abuse. Their three children have no other relatives in the city, and somehow that makes Sasori the system’s first choice of guardian.

It’s sheer madness. Sasori is impatient and aloof and cold, with a tendency to get lost in his woodworking and a history of criminal activity that would make any sane person faint. There is nothing in that equation that suggests assigning him three traumatized, likely still-grieving children will be anything short of a complete disaster. Sasori has never even vaguely wanted children—he has no interest in the process of their creation, no interest in the raising of them, no patience for the problems that come with developing hormones. His own childhood was scarring enough—to inflict that on himself again, times three, doesn’t even bear contemplating.

But—

He never knew his sister beyond the vaguest acquaintanceship. She left home shortly after their parents died, and their grandmother raised Sasori on her own. Raised him _her_ way, which meant that he developed a whole host of skills that no normal child would have. His early life was steeped in rhetoric and ideas and pushing boundaries, learning acting and acrobatics and the chemistry of poisons. Other children were raised very differently, he knows, but the exact differences escape him, and always have.

Sasori does not deal well with emotions, with anything illogical, and contemplating what-ifs has never interested him before.

He has no experience with children, only rarely interacted with those his age growing up, even when he was in high school. Every vaguely misanthropic cell within him rebels at the idea of disrupting his quiet life with the introduction of three brats, especially when he hasn’t even the first idea as to what they’ll need.

However, there is someone in his admittedly very small circle of friends who _should_ know.

The first three calls go unanswered, but this is hardly a surprise. Sasori simply rolls his eyes and heads out the door, casting a wary look at the heavy clouds rolling in. He doesn’t stop to find his umbrella, though, distracted by the growing list of questions he’s composing in his head. Likely he won't ask all of them, likely he won't _need_ to, but the not knowing itches at him, pushes him forward when it would probably be better to stop, step back, and consider his path.

When planning, when plotting, Sasori can have the patience of a scorpion lying in wait for its prey. For everything else, his impatience has always, always gotten the better of him.

Three and a half weeks since Akatsuki returned safely to Konoha, since their names were cleared and their past crimes pardoned, and they could start their lives over as free men and women. Three and a half weeks, but the habit of a lifetime is harder to break, and Sasori keeps a wary eye behind him as he walks, slides through the crowds at crosswalks with his head down and his senses alert. It’s not that he thinks someone is after him, is after any of them—Rin Nohara assured them that their names were kept top secret, that only a handful of people in the world know them beyond their codenames. Normally Sasori would be highly reluctant to trust anyone, especially a CIA agent—former, now—but Rin is one of the only reasons they survived their missions. She’s the reason they're home, the force that pushed them through years of hell and ushered them back into the light.

But even so, there's always a chance. Always a doubt, and Sasori knows the other reasons that they're all alive come down to paranoia and caution, and he isn’t about to let his go so easily.

Obito lives fifteen long blocks from Sasori’s woodworking shop, sandwiched between identical brownstones with wide, sweeping front stoops and worn stone façades. It’s a different neighborhood than Sasori’s, slightly more upper-class than the artists’ community he’s settled into, but only just. The interior of the building reflects that, shabby and dull though it must have once been grand, and Sasori shakes his head a little as he climbs the stairs, already knowing better than to trust the elevator. This place doesn’t suit Akatsuki’s shadow-leader, or even the carefree, joking combat specialist Tobi plays on missions. Too dark, too sad, but Obito had chosen it without hesitation when Rin offered them a list of choices.

Sasori assumes he’s punishing himself. Or possibly attempting to stay close to the rest of his team, regardless of the fact that his very wealthy family has offered several times to let him live at home, or at least set him up with a better apartment. Or maybe he’s simply rather more morbid than Sasori had assumed. With Obito, it’s fairly hard to tell.

No one answers when he knocks on the apartment door. Sasori frowns a little, because it’s just after nine in the morning and Obito is habitually an early riser. After a moment’s contemplation, Sasori tries calling him again, listening carefully. He can't hear the phone ringing inside the apartment, which means Obito is probably out. And at this time of the day, there's only one place he’s likely to be.

For a moment, Sasori debates giving up his quest for answers. He doesn’t want to trek all the way across the park and another two neighborhoods after that. Maybe it would be better if he just gave up now.

Except that it wouldn’t, because Sasori still has no idea what he’s going to do, and though Obito is hardly a father, out of all the Akatsuki members he likely has the most idea what to do with a child.

With a resigned sigh, Sasori scrolls through his address book to find the number of a cab company. Best to get this over with quickly.

 

 

Sasori has always been aware, in a distant sort of way, that Obito was raised in a wealthy family. However, that has so little bearing on who Obito actually _is_ that Sasori—and all the rest of Akatsuki’s members, he’s sure—has more or less dismissed that fact from mind. Obito isn’t someone to dwell on money; he’s a hard-bitten, hard-hitting soldier, and the association Sasori has attached to his name is a grinning man in dusty fatigues, clothes bristling with knives and his eyepatch askew, seated on the rocky ground and laughing despite the way his entire body screams _predator_.

The Uchiha mansion is such a stark contrast that Sasori doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to reconcile the two.

It’s not ostentatious, at least. Big, yes, but that’s expected given the positions of various family members in the city’s government. The place sprawls like a palace, but somehow also manages to seem contained, neat, regardless of the fact that there's actually a small patch of manicured lawn on either side of the path to the steps—practically unheard of in the city. Sasori studies it without much enthusiasm as he steps out of the cab, and the driver has a similar expression on her face. She stares at the building, then shifts her gaze to Sasori’s ratty jeans and threadbare pullover sweater, both of which are liberally dusted with wood shavings from his pre-dawn bout of creativity.

After a long, careful moment, she asks pointedly, “Want me to wait?”

The _for when they kick you out on your ass_ is only implied, but loudly so.

Sasori gives her the dead-eyed, deadpan stare that always works so well on enemies, and is satisfied to see her wince. Appeased, he pays her, including the full tip, and then heads up the flagstone walk before he can remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Thankfully, there's no need to hover in the doorway. Barely ten seconds after he rings the bell, the door opens, and a grumpy-looking man with long black hair pulled into a ponytail glares at him distrustfully.

“Haven’t I seen you on a wanted list somewhere?” he demands suspiciously.

Refusing to be even slightly intimidated, because he’s faced down warlords and terrorists and truly evil men without wavering, and a police bureaucrat is hardly something to cower from, Sasori arches one red brow and says, “I'm looking for Obito.”

“Of course you are,” the man—definitely an Uchiha—mutters sourly, then slams the door in Sasori’s face.

Obito's uncle, then, Sasori thinks, faintly amused but mostly annoyed. He remembers Obito calling Madara Uchiha “creepy, unnerving, mostly an idiot but sometimes scarily effective, and generally harmless” at one point, and lets the thought of saying that to the man’s face decrease his irritation until he’s no longer on the verge of giving Madara's computers every virus known to man. And possibly a few extras of Sasori’s own invention, just because.

Before he has time to draft more than the vaguest outline of the plan in his head, though, the door clicks open again, and this time it’s Obito himself on the other side. He’s looking a little harried but also the distinct flavor of high-strung that means he’s running on three days with no sleep, far too much coffee, and a manic sort of desperation not to slow down long enough to think. It’s all too familiar, and Sasori narrows his eyes at the man, assessing.

“Obito,” he says carefully.

“Sasori.” Obito blinks back at him, then shakes himself and straightens. Seriousness slides over his features, not so much a mask as the removal of one, and he asks sharply, “Is anything wrong? I saw you called.”

Despite himself, Sasori smiles, just faintly. Maybe Rin saved them from themselves, but Obito saved _them_. He was the first to care, and he’s never stopped. It’s been a very long time since Sasori allowed himself to love someone, but within a month of meeting him he’d made an exception for Obito.

“There's no danger,” he answers immediately, to put his friend at ease. “I was hoping to speak to you about something…personal.”

Obito regards him for a long moment, dark eye intent, and nods. He leaves the door open as he steps back into the foyer, dragging a pair of weathered combat boots out from under a low bench, and calls into the main house, “Itachi! I know you're busy, but go help your brother with his math homework! I'm going out, and I suck at math anyway!”

A lie, Sasori judges, feeling amused. Though, granted, he’s mostly seen Obito studying blueprints and parceling out explosives to effect specific areas, which is hardly the same thing as high school calculus.

From further into the house, there's a muffled sound of agreement, while the dark-haired boy just descending the stairs freezes. “But _you_ said you’d help me,” he challenges, and Sasori’s high school years aren’t so far gone that he can't recognize teen abandonment angst in someone else. The boy shoots Sasori a slightly bitter, scathing look, then snaps his gaze back to his cousin with a scowl.

“I said I’d help you with English,” Obito retorts, lacing up his boots. “You know, my _Major_. I said nothing about AP Trigonometry, kid. That stuff is torture. Ask Itachi.”

In Obito's case, the CIA covered for his absence, once his family new he was alive, by claiming college; Obito is just about the only person Sasori can think of who would actually go through with it, just because, even if he had to take online classes and write papers by flashlight in the middle of Suna’s deserts.

It was an entertaining two years.

The boy’s frown isn’t abating, but there's an edge of worry to it now, a buried anger in dark eyes as he stares at Sasori again. “Are you leaving?” he asks abruptly.

Obito straightens with a sigh, turning to face his cousin. “Brat,” he says, distinctly fond. “I'm just going out with a friend, and I’ll be back soon. You won't even have time to miss me.”

The boy’s mouth tightens sharply, but he nods. “If you're using that stupid line again, you owe me lunch,” he says sharply, then turns on his heel and stalks back up the stairs.

Obito grins at the retreating back, equal parts amused and exasperated. “Burgers?” he calls.

The teenager waves one hand in a clear “whatever” gesture, then turns the corner. A moment later a door slams, and an instant after that, music starts vibrating down the hall.

“God,” Obito mutters, grabbing a jacket and stepping out to join Sasori. He pulls the door firmly shut behind him, then offers Sasori a wry smile. “If I was _anything_ like that as a teenager, it’s a miracle I ever reached sixteen.”

Somehow, Sasori doesn’t picture Obito, even as the child of a wealthy family, being anything like that. Then again, by seventeen Obito was a different person entirely, and that person is the one Sasori likes. He has no interest in hypotheticals, not in this situation. “Breakfast?” is all he asks, though, because he doesn’t quite know how to put that feeling into words.

“I could go for a coffee,” Obito agrees, shrugging on his coat and tucking his hands into the pockets. “There's a nice little vegan place that does the best mock eggs—”

Sasori gives him a long, hard stare, and says nothing.

Rolling his eye, Obito relents. “Fine, whatever. Destroy the world through factory farming and vast amounts of systemic and systematic animal abuse, what do I care?”

Because he’s very used to Obito's attitude, Sasori takes this as the agreement that it might as well be. “I passed an organic café on my way here,” he offers in compromise, because he’s not Kisame. Then again, Obito wouldn’t have given in if he were Kisame; Obito would have taken great pleasure in making the big man choke down as many servings of tofu eggs as possible. Not that Sasori can say he’d do anything different.

Still, it’s a good excuse to stuff Obito with as much protein as he can, while keeping him away from the coffee as best Sasori is able. The Uchiha looks wired, but it won't last. This is Obito's attempt at forgetting something that’s gone wrong, and at some point he won't be able to avoid it anymore. Tofu is fine, and Sasori has eaten his fair share of it, but Obito needs some high-calorie food before his inevitable crash.

Thankfully, Obito agrees without further argument, and they head down the block. “Sorry about the kid,” he says as they cross the street on a red light, dodging a slow-moving van. “Sasuke's a bit touchy about me being around the team right now. He keeps thinking I'm going to pack up and leave the next time Uncle Madara yells at me, or Uncle Fugaku looks at me funny.”

Sasori remembers the boy and his older brother meeting them at the airport when Akatsuki’s flight landed. Remembers the relief on Sasuke's face, no matter how he tried to hide it, and the way he hugged Obito regardless of pride and teenage prickliness. Sasuke loves his cousin, that much is clear, and Sasori can hardly fault him for it.

It creates a perfect opening for the conversation that Sasori wants to have, though. He flicks a glance around them as they turn the corner, knowing that Obito is checking behind them for tails, and feels a tight line of tension in his shoulders ease slightly. It’s a little counterintuitive, maybe, but simply knowing Obito is close and ready makes existing in this busy, crowded world a little easier.

“You're good with him,” he says quietly, his gaze on the café as it comes into view at the end of the block. “It’s admirable.”

Obito gives him a look that says he’s very aware they're coming up on the point of Sasori’s visit, but doesn’t otherwise remark on that fact. “Well, before we got back, I hadn’t seen Sasuke since he was six, and…I promised to come back soon, when I left. It’s not really anyone’s fault I didn’t, but…” He shrugs, mouth twisting unhappily, and Sasori can easily recall the incident, or at least the aftermath. Obito had cut all ties with his family, let the majority of them go back to believing he was dead as he threw himself headlong into Akatsuki’s work, taking out weapons factories and army bases, destroying arms caches and assassinating corrupt politicians. It hadn’t seemed like anything had changed, outwardly; that had been Akatsuki’s plan all along, after all. But…Obito was harder, afterwards. Harsher. Never with them, never to the team, but looking back it’s easy to see his anger and pain.

Sasori waits until they've been seated to take up the conversation again. “My sister is dead,” he says bluntly, eyes on his menu as he flips it open. Obito doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t try to offer sympathies, and Sasori is grateful. “She has—had three children. Kankuro, Temari, and Gaara. The oldest is seventeen, the youngest fifteen. They have no other relatives.”

Obito is silent for a long moment, and when Sasori glances up, his gaze is fixed blankly on the tabletop. Then, softly, he sighs, and drags a hand through his hair. “You're aware,” he says wryly, “that by the time I was seventeen, I had run away from home, gotten half my face melted off because I didn’t have the sense to avoid wandering through a country in the middle of a civil war, started recruiting criminals for a terrorist organization, and already blown up my first building? If you're looking for help with normal teenage psychology, I'm probably not the best example.”

Sasori rolls his eyes. “And when I was seventeen, I knew a hundred ways to conceal poison, two dozen ways to kill a person with my bare hands, and how to hack practically any security system on the planet.” At Obito's soft snort, he looks up to meet the other man’s eye, and says, “I can't connect with them as someone with similar experiences. But…your cousin is very fond of you, and you have experience with him. I—” He breaks off, not entirely certain what to say from there, and tips one shoulder in an aborted shrug.

The sound Obito makes is closer to laughter than anything else, which Sasori definitely doesn’t appreciate. Before he can do more than level a glare, though, Obito says, “It’s not like they're from an entirely different species, Sasori. They're just like anyone else. And if they're over twelve, I'm pretty sure that just treating them like adults is the best thing you can possibly do. Maybe they don’t have our kind of pasts, but thinking of them as kids, treating them as kids that you have to watch and care for—that’s just going to piss them off. If you want them to live with you and respect you, tell them that, and respect them in return. If they’ve made it this far, they have to have something going for them.”

Sasori just—breathes out. Closes his eyes. Breathes in, slow and steady. It’s…not bad advice. It’s _logical_ , which tells Sasori that he likely should have thought of it before he panicked and raced halfway across the city to flail at his team leader.

Well. For given values of “panicked” and “flail”, of course; Sasori isn’t Deidara, after all.

“I don’t know what they’ll need,” he admits after a long stretch of silence.

That earns him another snort. “So? Ask them. I'm pretty sure they're going to know what they need better than anyone. Set up three beds, get three more of each of your dishes, and either learn how to scale up meals or start ordering more takeout. Everything else will come later, Sasori, and I think that having the stability of picking stuff for themselves could only help.”

Of the nine of them, it’s a little astonishing to think that Obito would be the best at giving advice. He’s not the oldest by a wide margin, never had a particularly normal life even before he ran away at sixteen. But, Sasori thinks, rabid environmentalism aside, there's quite a lot to be said for seeing the world as it is, in all its wrecked and fucked-up glory. That, at least, Obito is very good at.

Opening his eyes, Sasori nods decisively, settling the matter, and tugs Obito's menu out of his grip half a second before their waitress stops in front of them. “The full breakfast platter, for each of us,” he tells her. “With two glasses of orange juice and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Thank you.”

“Sasori—” Obito starts, tone edged with a ready complaint, but Sasori simply raises one cool brow at him and he closes his mouth again, looking resigned. It makes Sasori smile inwardly, because regardless of their usual picking at each other’s eating habits, Obito respects Sasori, and Sasori feels the same.

“You’ve dealt with my problem,” he says firmly. “Now we can move on to yours. Why do you look like you're coming off the tail end of a week-long mission, Obito?”

Obito hesitates, wavers. Then he mutters something tired and rubs his hands over his face, slumping back in his chair. “That obvious?” he asks, and it’s wry again. “No, don’t answer. It’s fine, really, I'm just—I got stuck in my own head, and couldn’t get out again. There's no fix, just time and distraction. Really, I don’t need an intervention.”

Brow still pointedly arched, Sasori simply waits him out.

It takes twenty-seven seconds before Obito folds, and he does it with a glare that lacks any of the heat it could potentially have. “Fine,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. One corner of his mouth tips up in a crooked smile and he asks, “Do you think it’s too dramatic to say Nagato and I are over? It’s not like there was ever all that much between us, but—he’s with Yahiko now. I guess—I guess it just hit me, that’s all.”

Sasori waits until the waitress has set down their tea, then pours them each a cup and pushes Obito's across the table. He takes a sip of his own, breathing in the scent of bergamot, and then offers, “I could use some help clearing out my office and spare room, if you're available today.”

Nothing else, because there's not really anything else to say. Things have changed for all of them, and this is simply the latest in a long line. One more change to set them apart from the suicide squad that first started trying to make amends, the terrorist group who traveled the world and could make the hardest mercenaries turn tail and run. Nagato and Obito were together for the majority of it, comfort and companionship and maybe something more, though Sasori could never quite tell. He might not want anything similar for himself, but he can understand that the ending of it hurts, no matter what it truly was, or what it meant to the two of them.

“I promised Sasuke burgers,” Obito says, but Sasori can tell he’s already accepted the offer. “Want to sit in on lunch? Free first-hand experience with a moody teenage who hasn’t seen his boyfriend in a week because he’s grounded for breaking curfew—it might give you the incentive to run screaming now, while you have the chance.”

Acceptable, Sasori decides, and inclines his head. He gives a vague thought to calling the others, maybe making plans to meet tonight in that little downtown bar they like so he can share the news. Deidara will be insufferable, Konan will laugh at his pain, Kakuzu will immediately start pricing out what sheltering three teenagers will cost, while Kisame and Hidan will attempt to get him drunk. Obito and Nagato will be awkward around one another, but they’ll start mending bridges anyway; the nine of them have been a team too long and through too much to let any rifts get in the way.

The curling knot of panic and uncertainty in Sasori’s chest has loosened, eased. Maybe it’s not entirely gone, but it’s enough.

Sasori breathes in, breathes out, and smiles.


End file.
